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This is a repost of poem by a Zimbabwean friend of mine who wrote this a year ago. It is no less valid or less meaningful than it was then. It not just a poem but a fable. When you read it you'll understand and hopefully pause for a moment to let it sink in.

I wrote an open letter to my former landlady about 5 years ago. It referenced the time I rented a room from her 10 years previously. Another 5 years have elapsed and I’ve had plenty of time to reflect on what I want from life and how I choose to deal with past events. I … Continue reading Forgiveness and Karma: My Quest for Reconciliation →

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! He chortled in his joy… No, I didn’t slay the Jabberwocky but a very special thing happened to me recently. Or perhaps I should say a special thing happened to the world: Raphael Mees Passaportis, my son was born. He arrived shortly before noon on the 12th August at the … Continue reading Ode to my Child →

A little piece I’ve written for the Vlierhof Community blog where I presently live. by Leo Passaportis, community member About The Community The Vlierhof is an international community run by volunteers from all walks of life, young and old. Founded in 2002 by Anutosh Varik, some residents view themselves as long-term ‘carriers’, others as short-term … Contin […]

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hostel

After the initial shenanigans regarding re-booking my flight I have to say it was an event-filled week or so in the metropolis. Istanbul, like New York, is worthy of the accolade ‘the city that never sleeps’. In hindsight, as I suggested in a previous post, it was mostly about connecting with people, both fellow travellers and residents. I mentioned the thoughtful Ayşe with whom I had corresponded with over the interim period between visits but neglected to say anything of the staff of the Stray Cat hostel where I stayed for the 9 nights I was in the city.

Istanbul, like New York, is worthy of the accolade ‘city that never sleeps’

There were four residents of Istanbul who worked the reception: Ur and a youngish girl, both Turkish, and Mhede and Hamet who were Iranian. The latter were both trying to get to France but had been denied visas. Therefore, Hamed informed me, they were obliged to find work in Istanbul whilst the uncertain wait continued.

Mhede had a ready smile, lank dark hair and a fashionably bushy moustache twirled at the ends in the old Ottoman-style. Hamed was approachable and equally helpful but with a slight air of sadness about him. I detected the pain of separation when he told me about how his plans were on hold whilst he reapplied for asylum in Europe.

The owner of the place, Sedat, was a tall, blue-eyed, bald-headed Turk who strode around purposefully or sat on the furniture scrolling through messages on his phone. He was a man of few words though he seemed fair in his dealings with the patrons of the hostel who often asked for concessions, cancellations or extra nights’ accommodation.

The owner of the place, Sedat, was a tall, blue-eyed, bald-headed Turk who strode around purposefully or sat on the furniture scrolling through messages on his phone.

Here I am sitting in a soggy UK and it all seems a world away from the Stray Cat and its motley crew. Every time I cast my mind back I think of someone else I might have mentioned or should still. Did I for instance elaborate on American Dave’s uncanny resemblance to a young Bob Dylan? Apparently he has been told this before and he is considering traveling with an acoustic guitar in future.

I know that I failed to mention Rosie and Fi, the intrepid Australian girls (aren’t they all?) and they ARE worthy of a mention. They arrived at the SC not long after me en route from a festival in Portugal. Prior to that they had been just about everywhere including Zimbabwe a few months earlier. How else would they know of the Matopos Hills and the lovely inhabitants (excluding all political types and those affiliated to them)? They spoke well of the place.

Before that they had been in Cape Town – not long after I had been there it transpired – for a festival called Africa Burn. Small world: my old school pal Sean and a group of his mates were just preparing for it when I was there in April. The ethos of the festival was all about giving to strangers, whether it be food, a gift or something else. I couldn’t really appreciate it except I was to understand that no money was to be exchanged. From Istanbul they would be heading to the mother of all Burn festivals, Burning Man in Nevada, the United States.

They were a colourful duo, like something out of the art nouveau era: scarlet lipstick and bright garments (can’t elaborate more) with the anomaly of laden backpacks slung over their shoulders. Hannah reckoned that the names Rosie and Fi were simply nom de Plumes and she also reckoned, after witnessing their largesse in the Grand Bazaar, that money wasn’t short. I wouldn’t go so far to say they had money to burn because that’s an awful pun… ok, so why would they be staying in a hostel if they were fabulously wealthy?

They were a colourful duo, like something out of the art nouveau era: scarlet lipstick and bright garments…with the anomaly of laden backpacks slung over their shoulders.

Like me they were probably there simply to enjoy the ambience of the hostel rather than the isolated luxury of a hotel. Hannah also expressed an inclination to name the two surviving kittens from a litter born at SC after these two impressive Sheilas from Melbourne. I liked the idea. They were actually lovely girls, unashamedly green in their worldly outlook and somewhat free spirits. Fi was suffering a spell of flu after the rigours of the festivals but didn’t make too much of it.

Like a number of other hostel patrons they disappeared off to Cappadocia for a couple of nights before departing Istanbul to see the famous fairy chimneys and catacombs of that unusual landscape. Just about every tourist who has spent any time in Turkey has seen them except me! It’s always good to leave something for the next trip…

I have mentioned a number of other Australian occupants of the SC whom I shared a drink or exchanged a story or two with but Rosie and Fi were probably the most memorable of them. Besides the Australians and the Americans I have already mentioned, Germans were the other most notable ethnic group in the SC.

Hannah, my soulful Canadian philosopher was herself half-German and now a resident of Heidelberg I think she said. I can’t remember most of what she and I talked of but she was one of those people I could just talk to about seemingly anything. Whatever I had read it seemed she had either read already. Her eyes were both kindly and uncannily honest and probing. She invited you to trust and in turn expected you to reciprocate. Like anyone who has spent any time digesting the enormity and breadth of human literature she had the wisdom of words and recorded knowledge.

I can’t remember most of what she and I talked of but she was one of those people I could just talk to about seemingly anything.

I will probably always best remember Ayşe in her summer hat and dress, smiling amiably as we crossed from Kabataş to Kadikӧy with my cohort of hostel-dwellers. As for Hannah, it will be the memory of her stroking her thick braid of dark brown hair and expounding on critical theory as we sat on a ferry plying the same route a few days later after an evening of smoking Nargile (Shisha) and playing Tavla (Turkish Backgammon).

I’m not sure if I mentioned my aspiration to take up teaching again a bit more seriously, more specifically as an English Teacher to non-native speakers? To this end I had made an inquiry from the UK before I left with an institution in Istanbul who provided business English tuition to their clients.

And so it was that on the day I had to try to re-book my ticket at Atatϋrk International I jumped off one stop away on the Metro for a meeting with the managing director of Global Ingilizce, a lady called Burcu. Like Hannah she had kind and lively eyes. ‘Why Istanbul?’ she asked me. ‘What would you like to achieve?’ She asked these and a number of other probing questions which had me on the back foot. Still, she was asking what was pertinent and after listening to my response she rather tactfully pointed out that Westerners did not always get the social-work balance quite right.

‘We have a very strong work ethic in Turkey,’ she continued. ‘Not all Westerners appreciate this. Ask me when I have last been to Taksim and I will tell you, not for 8 years!’ I raised my eyebrows and she continued in a more measured vein explaining the ins and outs of obtaining a work permit and the nature of the contracts that foreign teachers could sign up to. We parted with the assurance that I would get back to her once I had finished my next certificate (a TESOL or a CELTA).

‘We have a very strong work ethic in Turkey’‘… Not all Westerners appreciate this. Ask me when I have last been to Taksim and I will tell you, not for 8 years!’

Talking of Taksim, the hostel was only a stone’s throw away from the square, made somewhat famous on the global stage by the tenacity of the protesters in the adjacent Gezi Park a little more than a year back. I had arrived bang in the middle of the protests as I think I mentioned previously and it is worth contrasting the two occasions, then and now.

Last year Gezi Park was the heart of the protest movement standing up to the autocratic Erdogan, then Prime Minister (President, yet again, as of two weeks ago), seething at the audacity of the protesters who dared question his decrees. I remember the buzz of activity and the sense of community and camaraderie amongst those encamped there and the genuine interest of the public, especially in the cooler evening hours, as they strolled through the park, curious but perhaps not brave enough to stand side by side with the protest camp.

Now they were all gone, expelled by water-cannon and baton-wielding riot police, and the Park was curiously quiet. Although the graffiti, tents, and protesters were gone something tangible still lingered on the periphery of the place near where it merges into the broad paving slabs that constitute Taksim Square itself. It may have been the rough sleepers I saw sleeping there on pieces of cardboard mid-morning after breakfast at the hostel or the scratches on the outer flagstones, or maybe just the memory of what I had seen superimposing itself on the present. I can’t be sure, but it was there. ‘At least they actually attend to the gardens now’ Ayse had emphasized.

Now they were all gone, expelled by water-cannon and baton-wielding riot police, and the Park was curiously quiet.

On my last afternoon in the city I saw a very heart-warming scene: a little boy approaching an old vendor selling balloons and blow-up animated Disney characters, brandishing a lira coin and full of expectation. The old man untangled a blow-up ball and patiently blew into it before presenting it to the boy who was obviously delighted.

The old man had obviously had a long day and although he was gracious in this transaction once the little boy had gone he seemed to visibly deflate a little. Sales had obviously not been as good as he had hoped. He gathered the strings to his inflatable goods and made to move off. I thought that perhaps it could be a metaphor. Maybe the little boy represents Turkish Society, expectantly extending its cupped palms to the state. Then again perhaps the old man is not representative of Erdogan’s regime but rather the embodiment of the working man, slaving away to satisfy the burgeoning middle classes?

I never set out to ‘do’ Istanbul as some might attempt, seeking to tick off the major attractions as listed in a popular guidebook or magazine. The first time I was in the city last year I was there simply as a prelude to an assignment for a couple of days as I mentioned. No, I’ve taken Istanbul mainly as it saw fit to rise up and meet me. That’s not to say I didn’t have an agenda but it was primarily in the social domain.

After a few days hanging out with guys and girls from the hostel and because Ayşe was working and unable to join me I chose to wander a little off the beaten track. I felt I was rewarded in my meandering inspection of the old Theodosian Land Walls which straddle the European peninsula of the Bosphorus. These would have been a lot more prominent in ancient times when they were fully functional and citizens, traders and visitors going in both directions would have had to negotiate one or other of the gates along its length.

After a few days hanging out with guys and girls from the hostel … I chose to wander a little off the beaten track

Today they are crumbling in many places and most of the gates are bisected by roads or public transport systems, people hardly giving them a second glance as they whiz by. What were once moats are now fields of vegetables and buildings encroach upon them and in some cases overshadow them along almost the entire stretch.

As for the so-called Old City and Sultanahmet, I left that for the throngs of tourists. I had done the Aya Sofia and the Blue Mosque on the last visit and the Grand Bazaar I avoided on account of knowing that I probably wouldn’t be able to say no to the dozens of vendors and curio-sellers therein (and feeling terribly guilty as a result).

I did peruse the Spice Market and walked many of the surrounding streets but I haven’t taken many pictures of this area and if that’s what you want to hear about, I’m sorry to disappoint you! I regret not going to see the ancient cistern and water works but the queue was dismayingly long. Maybe because my interest was piqued last year whilst visiting the Armenian churches around the city of Van in the east and an amazing Byzantine-era church in Trabzon I decided to continue in this direction. As a result I stumbled across the small but impressively decorated Chora Church near the Golden Horn side of the city walls.

It was an interesting little adventure. I remember meeting a Spanish tourist in one of the convoluted side-streets in the vicinity a short time after having come out of it. He was evidently disoriented but seeing that I had a camera slung over a shoulder and a guidebook to hand he recognised me as a fellow traveller. He asked me if I knew where the church was and although I knew it must be close I couldn’t honestly hope to tell him how I had got to where I was because I myself was a rather lost.

‘Where are you from?’ he had asked and when I replied ‘England via Africa’ he said with a shake of his head and in broken English that I must be very lost indeed. What I neglected to mention was that the Church was closed to visitors at 6 pm and it had just passed the hour. I didn’t have the heart to tell him but who knows, maybe that day they stayed open a few minutes longer.

… when I replied ‘England via Africa’ he said with a shake of his head and in broken English that I must be very lost indeed.

Also worth a mention is one other character I met the year before, a Syrian named Samer. Samer hailed from Aleppo and worked in a small curio shop along a stretch of street which flanked the city walls alongside Topkapi Palace. I had stayed in a 2* hotel nearby the year before and we had become friendly, taking Chai every morning outside the shop as his potential clientele strolled by.

He was very good at picking out the different nationalities by their dress and appearance, alternatively trying to cajole them inside by chatting in French, German, Spanish, Italian or English. He may only have had a smattering of several of those languages but it was more than I had anyway.

Through the course of our discussions I discovered that he was a) gay and b) that Istanbul was only a waypoint in his quest to reach Western Europe. Whilst Turkey is a lot more tolerant of gay people than other Middle-Eastern countries, or so I am led to believe, he accused ‘them’ of being ignorant and rude.

My impression though was that he was surviving in a manner perhaps far better than many others could hope for at this difficult juncture in the region’s history. He smoked almost constantly and talked in hushed tones as if the effort of talking any louder was pointless. There were times he seemed to receded into his own thoughts but when pressed he talked quite openly of himself and his thoughts on matters.

On Syria he seemed to come down on the side of the present government; his elder brother had been ‘martyred’ (his words) whilst in combat serving with the national army. His parents and sister lived in Aleppo not far from where the Sheraton Hotel had recently been blown up he told me. ‘My father called me and told me there was a terrible noise and that they thought they were going to die in that moment.’ They hadn’t and that is where they still lived.

On Syria he seemed to come down on the side of the present government; his elder brother had been ‘martyred’ (his words) whilst in combat serving with the national army.

I didn’t press him much on the politics of the conflict but he volunteered his thoughts on the people opposing the government. ‘They are stupid people who will believe anything they are told’ he said to me, ‘but they can be taught the correct way of things given one or two years.’ What ‘the right way’ was I could only speculate having something to do with embracing Assad’s rule and the previous status quo.

At the end of this trip and can honestly say that I spent far more money than intended, than I probably should have, but that I met some inspirational and diverse people from many different places. I would love to have carried on the adventure and know that I will again most certainly. It was particularly hard coming back to my lodgings in the south of England after the communal loving experience even though I know it would have worn me out in the end… but here I am and richer for it so let me not count the monetary cost and instead appreciate these memories and experiences for what they are.

I would love to have carried on the adventure and know that I will again most certainly.

Watermellon seller

Mike and Dave observe a statue of Ataturk revealing the tenets of the new alphabet to the nation. A controversial move but one that seems to have endured.

Between Kadikoy and Kabatas

Boys and men dip into a swiftly flowing Bosphorus near Bebek.

The Bosphorus as seen from the 15th century fortress of Rumeli. Sultan Mehmed II took Constantinople from the Byzantines in 1453 using the fortress as his base.

A small group of Muslim ladies peruse the view from the summit of Rumeli Hisari (fortress).

Stepping back from practical considerations, flight oversights and worries… but still nursing a hangover from the night before.

The coastal highway bisects the wall closest to the Sea of Marmara. The tower at the right of the picture is the Marble Tower, once in the sea but now standing on the foreshore.

Yedikule or the Seven towers stand a little inland from Mermekule and house the ancient Golden Gate through which the Byzantine emperors would re-enter the city after successful campaigns. It was later filled in but the outline remains.

The original double walls were fronted by a 20m wide moat, today infilled and used for market gardening purposes. The land walls extend for 6.5 km from the Sea of Marmara to the Golden Horn. It is (or was) penetrated by 81 gates and 96 towers.

A typical street scene near the Aksaray tram stop.

Sadly the main church was closed to visitors during the day and I never did get to visit it when it opened in the evening. Hagia Triada was the first domed Christian church to be built in Ottoman-ruled Istanbul, completed in 1880 (wikipedia).

I am not sure if this entrance gate is ever opened. Most days a cobbler plied his trade here. (His table lies beneath the blue tarpaulin.)

Much poverty still lurks just beneath the surface.

These rough sleepers would not have been able to sleep quite as easily in mid-winter I wouldn’t think.

Gezi Park today is well tended to and belies the turmoil of the previous year.

This old tram progresses at snail’s pace down Istiklal Caddesi, the bell rung frequently to alert the droves of pedestrians.

One of many vendors in and around Taksim Square, selling Simit, the doughnut-shaped bits of baked bread so popular with the locals.

These so-called Vitamin Shops or bars are dotted all over the city. The Vitamins they tout are actually fruit juices of all descriptions: pomegranate, orange, carrot etc and blends thereof.

On the Galata Bridge can be found dozens of fishermen at almost any time of day.

A mobile cart from which oranges are sectioned and squeezed for passing foot trade at Eminonu Iskelesi.

Around the ferry terminal and harbour it was always bustling with activity as this photo illustrates.

As seen from a ferry looking towards Topkapi Palace.

I’m not sure if this fountain was for the benefit of the faithful or those who wished to quench their thirst? Perhaps both?

Brilliant gold mosaic tiles adorn this dome in the interior narthex of the church.

Detail of the virgin Mary and child.

Detail inside the dome/apse of the parecclesion or side chapel. Saints or angels, I can’t tell?

All that remains of what I took to be the entrance to a synagigue is this Hebrew inscription above a doorway along a narrow side-street near the north walls. On the other side of the wall was a mechanic’s yard.

A couple of English folk I met at Chora. They hailed from Dorchester not far from Bournemouth. Here they wander the streets near Chora. We took a ferry together from to Eminonu.

A ferry plies the Golden Horn stopping off periodically to collect and dispatch passengers. I was impressed by this traditional looking boat near the terminus.

A family takes advantage of the lengthy evening and dines on a picnic blanket at Avansaray just beyond the end of the north walls.

Especially popular amongst tourists are icons of the evil eye or nazar, used to ward away evil or the spiteful intentions of others.

My friend Samer in the curio shop in which he worked near Sultanahmet. I bought an ornate box studded with mother-of-pearl and other semi-precious minerals for a not so inconsiderate sum of money.

A young boy waits expectantly for this vendor to inflate a balloon for him.

Based on content extracted from my travelblog (www.travelblog.org) between 14/08/14 – 24/08/14.

I know much has been written about this incredible city. As my travel guide says in the preface ‘if ever there was a happening city is has to be Istanbul.’ Ok, I’m sure that could be said of a few other great metropolitans but Istanbul is, I can confirm, a very, very busy place. I won’t say too much because I’m rather exhausted. You see I have spent most of the day trying to change a flight ticket and it has been very, very frustrating. The crux of the issue is that I have not been technologically agile enough to negotiate the change in dates and attendant fee differences. Ataturk airport has NO INTERNET TERMINALS people. It has plenty of wi-fi but without a gadget you are hamstrung, as I was today. If you are new to the internet/cybercafe scene in Turkey you are in for some more brain-taxing puzzle solving as you find yourself confronted by a keyboard with an extended alphabet: ç,ş,ğ & ü are on the right of the qwerty adjacent to the return key and the regular ‘i’ on the English keyboard has exchanged places with its Turkish cousin ‘ı’ without the dot (hence the fact that my text is a binary creature – not every ‘i’ has been dotted). Other characters like @ and $ are activated via an Alt Gr key so touch-typing proves difficult.

If ever there was a happening city is has to be Istanbul

Anyway, I have soldiered on at various ‘I’ cafes, at the Otogar (coach station) and near Aksaray, yet it has been as if I have been beating my head against a brick wall. The real culprit I have to confess is not the cryptic keyboard but Skyscanner.com, that great all-seeing oracle through whom the world’s many air terminals are connected. It failed me badly today. It promised me flight bookings only to find that, after being redirected to airline or broker websites, it was all a lie. No tickets! What a mad month August is. I must try and unwind now and hope that my travel agent in the Netherlands can find me an amended fare in the morning. I’m shattered….

So the moral of the story is… try get your bookings done in advance and if there is a chance you are going to make or change a booking on the run so to speak, make sure you have the right tech in hand. Mostly though I am the idiot. Travelling without a gadget these days is a bit like having a passport without any pages. You are going to find yourself in difficulties at some point, particularly if you are dependent on the technology for blogging, travel bookings, flight changes etc on the go. Lesson learnt.

Stepping back from practical considerations, flight oversights and worries… but still nursing a hangover.

Travelling without a gadget these days is a bit like having a passport without any pages.

As I mentioned it is a year down the line and here I am back in Europe’s largest city, or the Middle East’s depending on your definition of the geographic boundaries. What has changed? If anything it seems more frenetic this time around. I checked into a hostel last Thursday near Taksim and have used it as a base to explore the city. I came without any sort of sightseeing agenda, having done a fair bit of that stuff last year. Primarily I wanted to escape the confines of my life in the UK, however fleeting it may be. To this end I have really enjoyed meeting new faces and engaging with young vibrant young travellers from all over. I hadn’t really realised how lonely life can be in the West without a community. Whereas there I am a visitor amongst residents (extended family included), here I am amongst a community of visitors. We are reliant on each other in so many ways the community back in England is not. The flip side of the coin is that I have somehow regressed since last year to become a stereotypical, naïve turista.

Just this morning I got taken for a ride on a batch of laundry, paying well above the going rate because I was essentially bullied by an overbearing, rude man in a dry-cleaners cum launderette. The recommended place was only a 100 yards up the road as I discovered too late and am 25 TL poorer as a result. Yesterday I fell for an old trick: ‘I give you gift’ turned out to be ‘I give you a free chain and tag but charge you through the nose when I write your name on it.’ I know it is the same the world over but I feel I should be little wiser for my travels.

Yesterday I fell for an old trick: ‘I give you gift’ turned out to be ‘I give you a free chain and tag but charge you through the nose when I write your name on it.’

I guess what I am saying is that there are many sharks out there and if you visit Istanbul try to take some local advice from those who do not stand to profit from your naïvety. The guys and gals who work in the hostel are great for instance. They can be relied on for some solid advice. Perhaps due to my lack of awareness more than anything I have felt a little indifferent toward the inhabitants of Istanbul this time around. Anyway, a little more on the hostel and the characters therein. I have met quite a few, some stereotypes, others quite their own persons.

From Aussie, Tim, a madcap Aussie who was all go after a few drinks. He landed up losing Dave and I and going off to a Turkish house-party at 4 in the morning with 3 girls we had only met a few hours before.

Firstly, Hannah, a lovely Canadian girl who majored in philosophy and English and with whom conversation has been food for my soul. Also from that side of the Atlantic, Brett, a fairly conservative American soldier who loved clubbing and Turkish women (his words) but was loath to spend money on public services (frustrating companion). Oh yeah, he also told everyone who asked that he flew UAV’s for the US Army (definitely the sort of information to keep to one’s self). Next, Dave, a softly spoken and exceptionally intelligent American from Boulder who had worked for NASA and was now working for a company building a weather satellite. A lovely guy and a dead-ringer for a young Bob Dylan. Sharing my dorm for several nights was Jake, a rather intense Chinese-Canadian, a bit older at 40 years, with whom I never really broke the ice. From Aussie, Tim, a madcap Aussie who was all go after a few drinks. He landed up losing Dave and I and going off to a Turkish house-party at 4 in the morning with 3 girls we had only met a few hours before. Also sharing my dorm was an Aussie, Colin, an Asian-Australian who has been tracking all across Europe by train.

I even met a South African guy from Port Shepstone who now lives in Ankara with his mum. He was a student of architecture travelling with his Turkish girlfriend and some other students mates. He confirmed what I had heard from so many other young white South Africans: I don’t feel like there is a place for me in the country today. Much like my home country, Zimbabwe, the nationalist pendulum has swung back to the right, except that it was a black élite now and not a white, that was benefitting. He was making a new life for himself in Turkey which I applaud. Screw nationalism and politics of race – Honestly. Once upon a time I embraced affirmative action and Black Economic Empowerment and whatever other acronyms or synonyms exist for essentially the same thing – discriminatory practices given a veneer of legality – because I had this quaint notion that two wrongs really could make a right. It doesn’t work that way.

So I have just discovered, as an aside and rather embarrassingly at this juncture, that the keyboard can be adapted to an English language configuration by clicking on the language button near the date and time at bottom right. As I said before, I am as green as the next tourist. Take it easy folks: the Thessalonian Walls await me!